Werewolves of London
by Twilight Scribe
Summary: The rookies insisted they had a plan and disappeared into the Soho night. An hour later the ten of them showed up with a big order of beef chow mein they grabbed in a little Chinese restaurant a few streets over...


Disclaimer: Howling along with the song in the dead of night is fun, but not recommended if within twenty feet of sleeping persons. They get testy.

AN: First things first, although I reference a song (heavily) in this story, it's not a bloody songfic! Capice?

Now that I've got that out of the way, the song in question is, you guessed it, 'Werewolves of London'. A Warren Zevon tune (on the album 'Excitable Boy') and all-around good little ditty. If you've never heard it, you should really make an effort to find and listen to it, right now, before you start reading. (Check Youtube, Youtube is your friend.) I suppose you can enjoy the story anyway, it just won't be nearly as funny.

* * *

Hellboy couldn't believe his luck. It seemed that no matter what he did, the universe was there, ready and waiting with some new horror to set upon him. Last time it had been an infatuated lady-yeti, the time before that a stately mansion that had a thing for digesting its inhabitants, and the time before that... The line stretched all the way back to Cavendish Hall and that crazy Russian, Rasputin, who claimed to be his master. Heck, all the way back to his birth.

As bad as all the weirdness in his past had been, Hellboy had to admit that that this time the cosmos' torture du jour was worse than any of its predecessors. What Hellboy faced on this mission was more horrifying than an abominable snowman in heat could ever be, more terrifying than being eaten alive in your own home by your own home, and more annoying than listening to some half-dead windbag rant about inescapable destiny.

Yes, what Hellboy had to deal with this time around was the ultimate evil: a team of BPRD rookies and interns. Good lord, there were ten of them...

- X -

The mission was a relatively simple one. An abnormally large number of deaths crop up in London. All of the victims' corpses were mutilated, as if attacked and partially eaten by a large beast. It was a scenario the BPRD had experience with, and that Hellboy had personally solved before; the last case being found in Griart, a tiny village in the Balkans of eastern Europe, formerly known as St. Augustine.

After the preliminary investigations were conducted, it didn't take long, it was established that a small pack of five werewolves was loose in London. Hellboy's team of rookie agents was sent to capture and subdue the creatures before the death toll spiraled completely out of control.

It was a fairly low-key assignment and supposed to be a bit of on-the-job training for the newbies. When it was first presented to Hellboy he was actually looking forward to the mission as an easy break, some downtime between the stretches of extreme action he'd seen lately. Then he got on the plane to England and it all fell apart.

Everything had been fine and peaceful until they were over the middle of the Atlantic. Once they just passed the point of no return, one of the rookies, a Warren Zevon fan who had obviously been holding the thought in for the whole flight, piped up.

"Hey guys, anyone else think it's funny that we're going to London to catch werewolves? 'Awoooo!' You know?"

The other ten of the plane's passengers started at the speaker for a moment, then the message clicked and all hell broke loose. Trapped in his seat high above the raging sea Hellboy groaned and covered his ears, trying in vain to muffle the sound of all ten rookies singing an a cappella version of 'Werewolves of London.' He hated that song, but, because the bureau wouldn't take too kindly to the near-fatal wounding ten agents, there was nothing he could do to drown out the loud choruses of "Awoooo! Werewolves of London." that persisted for the rest of the flight.

That was three days ago and Hellboy still hadn't been able to rid himself of the melody. Not only that, the lyrics to that godforsaken tune were haunting him as the team quickly began noticing peculiar patterns.

By a lucky coincidence, one of the werewolves they were seeking crossed their path in the Heathrow airport. The gent was spotted by one of the rookies thanks to his overly hairy hands. Once safely in custody, it was determined that that particular werewolf was responsible for the string of murders in the Mayfield area and other activities in Kent.

It was that capture that made Hellboy fear for the rookies' safety. He left the young agents alone watching their prisoner for just a few minutes to use the latrine. When he returned, Hellboy found the wolf fully transformed and attempting to rip the rookies' lungs out, his Armani suit hanging off him in shreds. It was the first time Hellboy ever pummeled a monster in an airport before.

Their next catch was a two-for-one special. A pair of werewolves were sighted prowling around in the residential areas of the city. Fortunately the folks living there were smart enough to not let them in so, apart from one poor old lady, there were no casualties. Since the two were smaller than the monstrous specimen they met at the airport, Hellboy just jumped the fence and collared both werewolves himself.

Then things just got weird.

When it came time to capture the next werewolf, the rookies insisted they had a plan and disappeared into the Soho night. About an hour later the ten of them showed up with a big order of beef chow mein they grabbed in a little Chinese restaurant a few streets over. The plan was to set out the meaty dish and rely on the bait's savory aroma to draw the werewolf in. Silly as it sounded, the team didn't have to wait long before the werewolf appeared and devoured the MSG-loaded chow.

With four werewolves in custody, there was only one left to grab.

- X -

As Hellboy sat, partially hidden behind a dumpster in the alley across from Trader Vic's, he couldn't help but wonder why he had allowed the rookies to organize this. Each member of the BPRD team, was strategically positioned around the area, with the werewolf bait set up in the center. The Bobbies evacuated and blocked the street, cutting off all vehicular and foot traffic. The shops and bars along both sides of the road were shut down while people locked themselves in their apartments and barred the windows. All was quiet and still as the agents conducted their stakeout.

Hellboy, not one known for his ability to stay still, held his position for hours, casting a furtive glance out at the bait every few minutes. Each look confirmed the same thing, no werewolves in sight. The bait sat, serene and undisturbed, in the middle of the road, glinting in the faint moonlight and the glow of a mercury vapor streetlamp. The longer he waited, the clearer it became that he and the werewolves agreed on one thing: No creature with taste would touch a piЯa colada with a ten-foot pole.

Another few hours of watching and the fog started to roll in. It crept, almost imperceptibly, across the street; starting as slim tendrils of mist and thickening until it began to take on the famous pea soup quality that London fog is known for. Hellboy sat tight for as long as he could, waiting patiently as the fog turned his leather duster clammy and damp, before getting fed up. He didn't give up easily, but Hellboy knew a useless operation when he saw one and this stakeout was a textbook case of futile. Just as he was about to stand up and call the whole thing off, he heard the distinctive clack of canine claws on pavement.

From out of the fog came a giant wolf; the last werewolf they had been searching for, fully transformed. It loped down the street and stopped in front of the piЯa colada. Hellboy couldn't believe his eyes when the beast lapped up a little sip then, judging the fruity rum to be acceptable, grabbed the glass in its jaws, threw back its head, and chugged the whole thing down. A werewolf who liked piЯa coladas, who would have guessed?

He made a mental note to apologize to the rookies, then slipped out from behind the dumpster as quietly as he could. Grabbing the oversized pistol, loaded with silver bullets of course, from the holster at his side, Hellboy hoped to every god he'd ever heard of that, after this, he would never have to deal with these damn werewolves of London ever again.

* * *

AN: Awoooo! Mmm, Halloween my favorite holiday! That magical time when all good little boys and girls should be eating candy until they puke, and when they play this song almost nonstop on the radio. It's a wonderful season for werewolves.


End file.
